Nightmares, Nuptials, and New Beginnings
by The Needless Lobsters
Summary: They've been through so much together, but it's not the end yet. Deeks has started having nightmares about the wedding, so enlists a young, knowledgeable therapist to help him. But everything is not always as it seems. Will everything go to plan, or will there be disastrous consequences for the infamous Densi?
1. Authors Note

_Hello there! IF you're new to this story, please feel free to skip over this authors note and continue on to the first chapter. Happy reading!_

However, if you're a returning reader, I would like to mention to you that on reading over what I have currently written, I am not at all happy. I know that many of you are enjoying the story, which I'm so thrilled about, and I shall continue with it shortly. However, in the mean time I am going to be re-writing the first few chapters that are currently posted here, so I do recommend taking another read over these before continuing on to chapter four when it is posted. :)

 _Here is the little disclaimer section, that everybody loves so much, so I thought I might as well post it here:_

 _I do not own any of the characters presented to you in the story, unless stated otherwise. All rights belong to Shane Brennan, NCIS:LA and CBS, because you know... if I did own them, I'm pretty sure Densi would already be married with two kids by now ;)_

As always, I am so incredibly grateful for each and every one of you that takes the time to sit and read, and review, my stories. I cannot express how happy it makes me to see your reactions to the things that I have written - and truthfully, sometimes when I am writing, I am just as surprised as you are at the outcome of events.

I know that we, _The Needless Lobsters,_ are not 'fanfiction famous', but it is a privilege to have such devoted readers as you, who have stuck by us through every story, and have always provided us with new ideas and inspiration.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

\- xo, B.

(06-20-2017)


	2. Just A Dream

Everything came down to this. He fiddled with the silver band in his hand, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself down. Out of all the things that he thought he would be nervous about, he didn't think that this would be one of them. He had envisioned the day for so long; he had pictured and planned everything. Everything except for what was about to happen…

He adjusted his lilac tie, worried that the fluttering feeling in his stomach would cause him to suffocate. He had never been overjoyed with the color purple. He could remember the exact moment that his abhorrence for the color began.

 _Everything was fine. Everything was normal. Until his father stumbled home drunk, which had become a regular occurrence, so much so that Deeks had become accustomed to the stench of whiskey on his father, and anything less would seem unusual._

 _His father was slumped over on the couch, wasting away, watching the same old football game that he recorded whilst he was sober, so that he could watch it in his current state._

 _Deeks quietly tiptoed down the stairs of the house, perching his bottom on one of the steps in the middle. He peered through the gaps in the railings, just watching. He could hear the chatter from the television, of the announcer commentating the players moves; and the clattering from his mother, who was busy at work in the kitchen._

 _His gaze remained transfixed on his father, who was still hunched over, his pot-belly handing out of his ratty old t-shirt, inflated from one too many bottles of booze. He could see the shotgun beside him; that was always beside him any time he had a drink. It scared Deeks to the point where he actually thought his father would use it on his mother… or him. He hadn't yet… but there was always time…_

 _His mother appeared from the kitchen, and exhaled in exasperation. She was tried. So tired, of everything – of working three jobs to support her family while her husband was too hungover most nights to even think about working; of cleaning up after the pig that was Gordon; of being the only person in the world that seemed to give a damn about her son, because it had become clear to her that his father surely didn't._

 _She pottered over to the living room, shaking her head. She was no stranger to two empty bottles of whiskey, or the odd bottle of brandy on the coffee table, but she'd had enough. Her eyes scanned over the bottles, tallying them up in her head. One… two… three… four… plus another, half full._

 _She bent over, gathering the bottles in her hands, each one clanking with another; enough to pull Gordon out of his intense fixation on the television. She felt a pair of strong, callous fingers grip her wrist. The bottles slipped form her fingertips, crashing against the table, fragmenting into a thousand little pieces which scatters across the hardwood floors. She gasped as the pain radiated throughout her fingers, throughout her arm, overwhelming her entire body. She bit her lip, hindering the cry of agonry located in the back of her throat._

 _He stood up off the couch, his once warm and caring eyes, now merciless and aggressive staring back at her, tarnished from the poison in the whiskey glass that he had to put to his lips. Her free hand reached for the half-drunken bottle of brandy, still sat on the table. He clasped her hand so forcefully, that she could feel the bruises being etched into her skin._

" _What the hell do you think you're doing?" He spat._

" _Cleaning up after you." She replied, brazen._

" _You don't touch the bottles." He replied. She could feel his hold on her wrists, tightening._

" _Gordon…"_

" _Roberta." He scolded._

" _Gordon…" She pleaded. She began writing beneath his grip, attempting to release his hands from her wrists._

" _You don't touch the bottle." He spluttered._

" _Or what?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. She wasn't afraid of him. He was manipulative. He was violent. But she would never give him the satisfaction of thinking that he had power over her. Ever._

" _Do you really want to find out?" he threatened. He released his grip on one of her wrists, tightening the other, as he clutched the shotgun in his hand. A gasp slipped through her lips as her eyes stared at the barrel that was pointing at her._

" _No!" Deeks shrieked, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the railings tightened._

" _Go upstairs, Martin!" yelled his mother, her eyes anchored on Gordon. She would do anything to protect her son; anything to protect him from the monster before her… and that included taking a bullet for him._

" _Let the boy stay and watch…" Gordon slurred. He brandished the gun in his hand, his index finger carelessly sliding over the trigger._

" _Momma!" Deeks cried, as Gordon liberated his grip on her wrist, just long enough to cock the gun, but returned it as she began to cower away from him._

 _Deeks clambered down the stairs to his mothers' side, tugging at her arm, as she remained motionless._

" _Martin…" Her voice was barely audible, letting out nothing more than a whisper, just enough for Deeks to hear._

 _Deeks let out a gasp, as he found himself staring at the same barrel of the gun as his mother._

" _You want me to use this, Roberta?" He gripped her blonde strands, yanking and tugging until she was keeled over, in agony. She could feel the rigid edges of his nails, embedding themselves in her scalp, her mouth unable to let out nothing more than a whimper._

" _Please…" she sobbed, "don't hurt him…"_

 _Deeks looked upon his father, who has a hold of his mother, like an animal clutching hold of its prey. He could hear her whimpering underneath his touch; a tear rolling down Deeks' cheek as he stood there, motionless. He had to do_ _something_ _._

 _His hands collided with Gordon's chest, who stumbled backwards; the edge of the coffee table ripping through him; the half-drunken bottle of brandy shattering from the impact; and the shotgun falling to the floor. A soaring pain shocked Gordons's body, as he saw the blood drip from his hand; the glass embedded inside the gaping wound, like a spear in a fish. He yanked the glass from his hands, letting out a wail. He turned his rage-induced eyes towards Deeks, who was clutched tightly beneath his mother's grip. His fingers danced across the floor, searching for the wooden handle of the shotgun. He clutched it tighter than he ever had done before, twirling it in his hands and aiming it at the pair._

" _Nobody disobeys me." He hissed._

 _Deeks' heart beat erratically, and more forcefully than he had ever known it; as he lept forward out of his mother grip, knocking the shotgun out of his father's hand, and tackling him to the floor. He could hear his mother screaming his name, as he stumbled to his feet, gripping the shotgun in his hand, directing it at his father._

" _Use it." Gordon provoked. "What are you waiting for, boy?" He didn't want to shoot him. What child ever wants to shoot their own father? "Go on boy! Use the damn gun! Pull the fucking trigger!"_

 _Roberta felt the strong grip of Gordon's arms around her as she writhed beneath his touch once again._

" _Come on boy!" He bellowed, "Be a man! Shoot me! Pull the trigger!"_

 _Deeks trembled, still aiming the shotgun at his father. He didn't want to do it._

" _Come on you rotten little turd! Pull it, or I'll snap her neck right here. Pull the damn trigger kid!"_

 _He felt a pang of anger overwhelm him, and before he even knew what he was doing, he felt the kick back from the trigger._

 _Gordon groaned in agony, as he stared down at the river of blood that was pouring out of his leg._

"' _I'm so sorry, Momma, I'm so sorry, so sorry…." Deeks' cried, his fingers relinquishing his hold on the gun, it falling to the floor with a tremendous thud. He was trembling, and whimpering in shock. He turned to his mother, who too was trembling; her hands covering her mouth. Tears rolled down her cheeks, one after one, leaving mascara stains in their tracks, as she let out the cry that she had been trying so desperately to stifle._

 _His mother rushed to his side, clutching him tightly, as if she hadn't seen him in years. She kissed the top of his head, exhaling in relief, before she turned to look at Gordon, who was still collapsed on the floor, clasping his leg; Deeks mirroring his mother's actions._

 _He followed her into the kitchen, as she wiped away her tears, dialing a number into the phone that sat upon the wall, who he assumed to be the emergency services._

 _He stood there in the middle of the kitchen, dazed. Everything was lined up so neatly, as it always was before his mother started cooking her famous lasagna. The clock still hung upon the wall, ticking away. Everything was normal. Except… he had shot his own father in the middle of the living room; and the purple tulips that usually sat on the counter, so bright and perky, had begun to wilt._

He hated the color purple. But Kensi loved it. And her loved _her_.

He glanced out into the crowd of spectators, talking amongst themselves whilst they waited for the ceremony to begin. He spotted the tornado that was Kat, Mindy, Mandy, Tiffany and Tiffany, and he smiled to himself. Although he no-so-secretly complained about them to his fiancée, he had to admit that he loved her friends… even if they were the most spritely, wild bunch of women that he knew.

He couldn't believe that it was finally happening. There had always been a small voice inside his head, telling him that they weren't going to make it. Even Tony DiNozzo had mentioned to him once that it was never going to work. But they were determined to try. They had overcome so much together, that the idea of getting married seemed like one of the easiest things for them to accomplish. Then again, it was just an idea. For a long while, a wedding had seemed like a far-off possibility for the two of them; between Kensi's recovery and catching bad guys, they barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone plan a wedding and _actually_ get married.

Granted, it was a little different than what they had hoped for. They had only wanted a simple wedding. A very simple wedding. On the beach. At sunset. With those they cared for the most. But of course, not everything works out the way that you plan it; something which they had come to realize over the most recent months. Life was short, and they had to seize every opportunity they were given. So, when the option of a fancy wedding arose, they thought it would be foolish to turn it down. And thank _god_ it wasn't their mothers planning it…

He loved his mother, and he loved Kensi's mother, but the two of them together could get rather… intense; and they had discovered throughout the course of Kensi's recovery. They had fussed and fussed and fussed over Kensi, to the point where even _he_ was sick of them fussing over her. They always had to fuss over the inconsequential little things… But then again, both he and Kensi were only children, so who else did their mothers have to fuss over?

He looked towards the centre of the aisle in anticipation. Hetty and Nell had done an outstanding job at decorating the venue. There were white chairs, perfectly placed in two sections, to form an aisle down the middle; lined with a white carpet covered in rose petals. There were purple and white ribbons, and purple and white balloons spread about the grounds – tied to the backs of chairs, to the pillars of the reception, to the garden posts and direction signs. He didn't think they could have done any better if they tried. It was far from the worlds most perfect wedding, but they didn't care, because it was perfect for them.

He adjusted his tie once more, attempting to release the constricting feeling in his airway, as the music played. He glanced out onto the porch. He smiled at the thought of Kensi in her dress, walking down the middle of the aisle towards him. He knew that she would take his breath away; she always did. Whether she was in a wedding dress, or her iron maiden t-shirt – she was beautiful, and sexy, and all his.

The music continued to play, as his eyes wandered to the center of the aisle, as he waited for the love of his life. _Where was she? Why wasn't she there?_

Nell emerged from the inside of the reception, her eyes red and soaked from her tears; her body trembling. She ushered herself down the aisle, her head bowed down in an attempt to conceal the mascara stains on her cheeks.

Deeks watched her every move, his concern for her growing; so much so that he had failed to notice the two police officers that were following behind her. Their eyes were sunken, which accentuated their crestfallen faces; and expression that he was far too familiar with. The pull of his stomach knotted inside him, as they stood motionless, staring at him.

"We're so sorry to interrupt…" the first police office began.

"Are you Martin Deeks?" his partner asked, his eyes transfixed on Deeks.

Deeks stared at them, until his eyes became blurry and they were nothing more than silhouettes. _Please don't say it. Please don't say it. Please don't say it. Please…_

"We're so incredibly sorry, Mr Deeks…" the police officer choked, stifling a sob, "but there's been an accident…"

 _Oh god, no. Please. Not now. Not today. Not ever._

"Your fiancee… Miss Kensi Blye… I'm so sorry…"

 _They had to be kidding. They just had to. It couldn't be happening. No no. It wasn't happening. Not to him. How dare the universe do this._

"You're kidding, right?" He choked out, "please tell me you're kidding."

The police officer shook his head, looking down at his feet.

"She can't… this… she's… this… this… this can't be happening…" HE began, pacing back and forth around the altar.

He dreaded to look out onto the spectators now. He imagined their eyes, just staring back at him with looks of pity and despair. It was too much. Too much for him to handle, especially today.

"We're… we're… we're supposed to be getting married right now. Right now. We're supposed to be staring out lives together," his voice raising with every word. "You… you…. You can't come in here and tell me that the love of my life had died… you just… you just can't…"

"We're so sorry, Mr. Deeks…"

He choked back a sob, as he bolted for the door, yanking his tie off from around his neck, almost certain that he was about to suffocate. He approached a patch of grass, collapsing to his knees, sobbing.

He could hear the patter of footsteps behind him, as Sam and Callen emerged from the doorway, looking over at him. They gently shuffled towards him, as he looked up at the sky.

"How dare you!" He screamed. "How dare you take her away from me! You bastard! We were supposed to be getting married! We were supposed to be happy! How dare you take her away from me. How. _Dare_. You!"

He felt a pair of strong, toned arms wrap around him. He writhed under their touch, attempting to break free. He didn't want to be held. He didn't want anybody's arms wrapped around him but Kensi's.

"Let go of me!" Deeks yelled.

"Deeks… Deeks… calm down." Sam protested, tightening his grip.

He continued to fight against the strong arms holding him, until he was too tired to fight any more.

"Deeks…"

He choked out another sob, tears streaming down his face, as the guests gathered in the doorway, perplexed about what to do with themselves.

Sam loosened his grip on Deeks, who span around, embracing Sam more tightly than he had ever known, as the whimpers and sobs and cries of agony continued to emerge from the distraught man.

"It's okay, Deeks. It's okay. I've got you."


	3. Therapy?

"Deeks… Deeks… baby… wake up…"

He groaned, the hairs on his arm standing upright like soldiers, as he felt her delicate fingertips upon him, gently shaking him from his slumber. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, before turning to look at her.

"Baby, what's wrong?" he groaned, as he shifted under the covers, running his hands through his shaggy hair. He looked over at Kensi, who was sitting upright in the bed, her eyes fixated on him.

She bit her lip, hesitant at approaching the subject. She loved him. She loved him more than anything and wanted to help him in any way that she could, but he never opened up to her. She always had to pry the honest truth from him, and even when she did, she knew that there was always something that he wasn't telling her.

" _Like I said, poor communication skills." She huffed, turning around abruptly as she headed back towards the motorbike. She fiddled with the helmet in her hands, twisting the straps around her fingers, while she blabbered on at him like an idiot._

 _She was so frustrated with him. Why could he never tell her exactly how he felt? Why could he never say what he meant? They had worked together for years, and she thought that he knew him, but then, at times like this, she felt as though she didn't even know him at all. They were partners. Their communication skills were meant to be their best, after all, sometimes lives depended on it… including theirs._

 _She untied the straps of her helmet, about to slide it over her face, but she felt her whole body stop and tingle at the pair of gentle hands that were caressing her face, the soft lips upon hers. Her eyes closed, as she felt her heart beating erratically in her chest, her stomach fluttering._

 _Her eyes opened widely as she felt him pull away from her; their gaze transfixed upon each other._

 _When they first met, it wasn't love at first sight. It couldn't have been further from it. She couldn't stand him. He was annoying, irritating, and got on her nerves. And he was hell-bent on teasing her, which only made her frustrated. But now, the same irritating, annoying, got-on-her-nerves guy that she once wanted to punch every time he opened his mouth, was staring at her, and she thought her heart was ready to explode._

" _How's that for communication?"_

"Baby… what's wrong?" He sat up in bed, shuffling under the covers. Her fingertips gently caressed his face, turning his head towards her, his eyes slowly moving to meet hers. She rested a gentle hand on his cheek, caressing it lightly with her thumb.

"You were screaming again."

"I was?" He asked slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

She pursed her lips. "So… what's going on?" she pressed.

"Nothing," he lied easily, pulling his head out of her hold and turning away as if it was nothing. He closed his eyes, pretending as if he couldn't hear her. Maybe if he didn't say it out loud, maybe if he didn't hear himself say it, then it wouldn't be happening; at least, not to him.

"Deeks…"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine." He cleared his throat, taking a sip of water from the glass that stood on his bedside table. She shuffled towards the edge of the bed, his head dipping towards his chest as he sighed. He closed his eyes, wiping his hands across his face.

"Deeks…" she began again, watching him as he stood up from the bed, walking over to the dresser.

A sliver of sunlight forced its way through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating their room in a gentle orange glow, emphasizing the perfect physique of the golden-haired man that stood before her in nothing but his boxers. He opened one of the drawers and pulled a pair of jeans and t-shirt out, throwing them on the side as he heard her speak before he shut the drawer a bit more harshly than intended. He knew it was coming. He just knew.

"I know you." She continued. "You're not fine. You think that I don't see it, but I do. You're clearly not fine. I didn't want to bring it up because we've been doing so well, and I didn't want to argue with you, but I'm concerned, Deeks. Really concerned."

He stared out of their bedroom window as she spoke, biting his lip. She was right. They had been doing well; amazing actually. Ever since her accident, he hadn't known whether she would ever be back to herself… if they would ever get back to them. But he couldn't keep hiding it from her. He didn't want her to worry, but she deserved more than to be kept in the dark, especially by him. No more secrets, she said. No more secrets.

"It's a dream." He spoke, suddenly, breaking the ominous silence that had surrounded them.

Kensi hadn't been prepared for the sudden voice. "What?"

"It's a dream… well, more like a nightmare actually."

"Oh?" Her brows furrowed as he trailed off. He returned to their bed, perching on the edge comfortably, and he felt her crawl up behind him.

"I know, it's stupid."

"Sweetie, it's not stupid at all." Her hands gently ran up and down his bare back, his body tingling at the sensation of her touch. God, he loved her. Her arms wrapped themselves around him, her hands resting upon one another on the front of his torso, and he covered them gently with his own. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, then his collarbone, then his neck, and finally his cheek, as he finally gave a smile in response. "I have nightmares too."

"You do?" he asked with mild shock, his head slowly turning to look at her, as his face enveloped an expression of surprise. At her nod, he asked, "how often?"

"A lot. More so, since Syria. At least once a month."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know." He shook his head gently, his eyes gazing at her apologetically. She took his hand, intertwining their fingers; his lips pressed themselves to the back of her hand, just like he had done all those months ago as they sat on the couch playing checkers. It was a simple gesture, but their bodies burned with desire at the feeling of their fingertips touching.

She smiled at him. "I know," she paused, inhaling deeply and letting her eyes glance to the side in guilt before continuing. "I didn't want you to," she confessed, "you've been through enough this year, looking after a cripple."

"You're not a cripple."

"No," she agreed, "but when I was, you never left my side. You never even considered it. Hell, you _proposed_ to me while I was in a coma. You deserve a break and these nightmares… they're something I can finally handle on my own."

He turned and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, her lips turning upwards at the corners.

"Now," she continued, ignoring how his brows furrowed as she spoke. He knew what was coming next, even the words left her mouth, "do you want to tell me what _your_ nightmare is about?"

* * *

"You want me to go to therapy?" he asked, the surprise written on his face.

Kensi stared down at the coffee in her mug, watching the steam rise from the top of the liquid. "I don't… I don't want you to go. Not unless you want to. I'm just suggesting that it might be a good idea. It worked for me." Kensi stirred her coffee, watching the swirls go round… and round… and round… attempting to pretend as if she had never mentioned anything. The last thing she wanted was for them to fight over something so stupid.

"Baby, I don't need a shrink." He insisted though he sounded almost casual as he said so, swivelling in his chair. He gripped onto the desk abruptly, to stop himself from spinning, as he felt nausea in his stomach take hold from the dizziness.

"What are you two arguing about?" asked Callen, as he entered the teams area, slinging his bag onto the desk in the same familiar way that he always did. He sat in his chair swiftly, pulling his laptop out of his bag.

"We're not arguing," Kensi corrected as she continued to stir her coffee, "we're having a mild disagreement." Callen nodded slowly, unconvinced.

She took a sip of her coffee, her face grimacing at the flavour. She set her mug down on the table, adding another two scoops of sugar to the four that were currently dissipating throughout her beverage.

"Easy on the sugar there, Kens…"

The trio's heads rose swiftly in unison, startled by the familiar voice that was hovering over the bullpen. Their eyes grew wide, as they stared at the figure that was staring back at them.

"Oh my god…"

It had been nearly eight months since Sam had lost Michelle and he was going crazy. In the beginning, there were only so many things that he could say to people when they asked him how he was. He could nod. He could say that he was fine, even though he clearly wasn't. He could tell them that he was getting there, even though he had no idea where there actually was. He could tell them that he was doing okay, or he could thank them for their kind words and condolences. But truthfully, what he really wanted was his wife back. And he wanted to shoot something. He had been to the shooting range a couple of times, but he wanted to shoot a bad guy, a villain, a criminal… someone that really deserved to be shot.

The recent months had gotten easier, but he was by no means 'healed'. Sometimes, he didn't think he ever would be. But the lonely nights got less lonely, or in actuality, he had just become accustomed to her absence. It became easier for him to get up in the morning, to get dressed, and to step outside. He felt more normal than he had done in a long time. Which is why he wanted to go back to work. He wanted to get back into a routine of catching those on the other side of the law and putting them behind bars. He knew that it wouldn't bring Michelle back, he knew that nothing could bring her back, but he figured at least he was making the world safer for somebody else, so they wouldn't have to endure the same devastation that he had been through.

"Sam…" Kensi finally managed to choke out, her disbelief taking control of her words. "What are you doing here?" She stood from her desk, walking towards him before embracing him in a warm hug. Deeks followed behind her, giving him a handshake before pulling in for a brotherly hug, patting him on the back.

Callen was the last of the three to greet his partner. They hadn't spoken much in the eight months that he had been away; he'd taken Sam to see Michelle's body and offered to drive him home, but Sam insisted that Callen leave him be. Callen, being Callen, thought it was a terrible idea in Sam's state, but out of respect for him, he didn't push further.

" _Let me drive you home."_

 _The sombre tone in his voice cut through the silence as the two of them stood in the cold, fluorescently lit room, Sam hovering over Michelle's body._

 _The first time they had been in a room like this, they'd examined every inch of it, in the hopes that they would never have to see it again, but unfortunately the longer they were on the job, the more of these rooms they saw. They observed how all of the instruments were lined up almost perfectly on a tray, from scalpels to scissors, and they imagined the perfect precise cuts that the medical examiner would make on the bodies that were wheeled through the doors. They had noticed the sheets of blue or white cloth, pulled up to the chest of every person as if to keep their dignity intact. They observed the walls covered in various medical drawings and illustrations as if the decoration of the room would improve the morbidity of the job. They had spent a lot of time examining the pale, lifeless bodies that lay upon the cold, metal tables. They had seen them all; people of every race and colour, size and shape, senselessly killed through the actions of others. The aroma of death was nothing new to them either._

 _Their line of work came with the possibility that one day it would be one of them – killed in the line of duty – but never did it cross their minds that it would ever be their loved ones. Sure, they had made enemies over the years. But they always assumed their enemies would come after them._

" _Please, Sam," Callen begged, "let me drive you home."_

" _I'm fine, G."_

" _Sam…"_

" _I said I'm fine!" he snapped._

 _Callen edged forward, gently resting his hand on Sam's shoulder. Part of him was glad that Sam didn't shrug his hand off, but the fact that Sam was barely even reacting to his hand was worrying._

" _Sam… you're in no state to drive home and I'm not just going to leave you here."_

" _Please…" the bigger man begged, his voice barely a whisper, "please just leave… I'll call a cab… I just want to be alone with her, for the last time." He didn't even turn to look at Callen, his eyes locked on the body that lay before him._

 _Callen sighed. He didn't even have to look at Sam's face to know the expression written all over it. They had been partners for the best part of ten years, and they had learnt to understand each other in a way that nobody else could. There was an unspoken shorthand between the two of them._

 _Callen looked at the man in front of him. Sure, he was grieving too, but it was nothing compared to the grief that Sam felt; something which he couldn't even begin to imagine. He had never loved anybody the way Sam loved Michelle. He'd never had anybody to share that kind of special connection with, and sometimes, he felt all alone. After all, Sam had Michelle. Kensi and Deeks had each other; hell, even Eric and Nell were somewhat of a thing._

 _Although, he had come close to proposing to Joelle before she had ended things with him. He had searched online for rings within his price range, but unfortunately, the salary that came with working in law enforcement wasn't enough to afford a couple of diamonds. I mean, even Deeks had to buy Kensi's engagement ring off a Dirty Harry Winston._

 _But then again, he wasn't entirely alone. He had Anna. And although they hadn't said that they loved each other yet, he knew that he could. He could love her. They could be amazing if they tried. And he wanted to try. He wanted his Michelle. He wanted somebody that he could love; that somebody to wake up to in the morning and to come home to at night. He wanted somebody that understood the job, and more importantly, understood him. But those somebodies were few and far between._

 _Sighing internally, Callen decided to give in. There was no arguing with him. "Just let me know when you get home?" Callen asked the worry he felt for his partner being conveyed in his tone. Sam nodded lightly, knowing it was more of a statement than a question. Callen cared for him, as did the rest of the team; something which hadn't gone unnoticed by Sam. After the time they had spent together over the years, in their line of work, the team was more than just a team. They were his family too. And family stuck together, no matter how difficult things became._

 _He wasn't going to push them away, as much as he wanted to. As much as he wanted to be alone with his kids, he understood that they too were grieving. They too had lost somebody they cared about. And their grief mattered just as much as his._

 _Listening to Callen's retreating footsteps, he waited for the door to close and Callen's footsteps to drift off into the distance before he broke down on the floor beside Michelle's body, the wave of devastation sweeping over him. The tears rolled down his cheeks in a continuous stream, his knees tucked up to his chest, as he rocked back and forth; his once strong and ruthless persona was merely a shadow, a memory of a man he once was, now replaced with a fragile and broken man._

"Getting on with my life," Sam stated, as the others moved away from him, giving him space, as he began shuffling over to his desk. He removed his bag from his shoulder, slinging it upon his desk, before sliding back into his chair.

Everything was exactly as he had left it. The pots of pens were in the same position as they always were, all arranged by colour and size; the case files were piled sky high at the side of the desk, just waiting for his signature; the picture of Michelle… of his beautiful Michelle, sitting in the same corner of his desk next to his nameplate, to remind him of the reason why he continued to do what he did, day after day.

"But you're—" Deeks began.

"Doing fine." Sam interrupted, stopping Deeks in his tracks. "It's been eight months. I'm still grieving, but I can't just sit around the house and do nothing all day. That's not who I am, you know that. My kids know that. Even Michelle knew that. And she wouldn't want me to just sit there and feel sorry for myself, for her not being there. She would want me to get back to work. She would want me to get back to putting the bad guys behind bars, and saving the world."

The others were quiet for a moment, taking that in and nodding before Kensi spoke up again.

"How are Kamran and Aiden holding up?"

Sam's lips quirked up into a smile. "They're okay. Kamran couldn't wait to go back to school and spend some time with her friends, not that I blame her. We've all bee walking around like ghosts ever since. It's about time we got some normality back into our lives. Aiden returned to Keating about three months ago." He gave a deep sigh. "To be honest, I think they've handled this better than I have."

"You know if they ever want somebody to talk to… somebody who understands what it's like to lose a parent, I'm here."

"Thank you," Sam replied, a hint of sincerity lingering in his voice before he decided to change the subject with the smallest of smirks – after all, this was his first day back, and he didn't exactly want to be all mellow and emotional when he was trying to convince the others that he was okay. "Anyway, you want to continue the argument you were having before I came and interrupted the entire thing?"

There was a sigh. "As I said, we were not arguing. We're just not currently seeing eye to eye," Kensi insisted.

"I never said I had a problem with it," Deeks replied, throwing his hands up in the air and turning back towards his desk.

"Well, you're acting as you do."

"I don't disagree with anybody who does it, I just don't think it's necessary for me," Deeks responded defensively as he spun to face Kensi dramatically, gesturing with his hands in an attempt to prove his point.

"Don't think what is necessary, Deeks?" asked Sam, raising his eyebrows as he leaned back in his chair.

The blonde man turned towards the man, his mouth opening, but frowned slightly at the sound of his voice is replaced by that of his girlfriends.

"Therapy," Kensi replied simply.

Sam chuckled.

"What?" Deeks asked, looking towards him.

"Nothing," Sam smirked.

"No, come on," Deeks pushed, folding his arms. "You clearly have an opinion, so please share and prove Kensi wrong."

"I think it's a good idea," Sam responded, the small smirk on his face growing at his amusement.

"What?"

"Yeah… I think it's a good idea… I mean, I don't know what you're struggling with, but a little therapy never hurt a soul."

"But I don't need it."

"Everybody needs it at some point, Deeks," Callen began," whether you think you need it or not, I'm just saying that in our line of work, it might not be a bad idea to consider. It doesn't even have to be because you're struggling with something. I go and see my therapist I've had a tough case that's really emotionally drained me. One talk with her and I feel like a weight has been lifted."

"You have a therapist?"

"You don't?" Callen raised his eyebrows.

"Am I the only one here who doesn't have a therapist?" Deeks asked incredulously. The other three nodded.

He sighed. "Okay, okay, fine. I'll go and see a therapist." Deeks gave in; Kensi sighing in relief. "But," he continued, "if this turns out to be a bad idea, I'm going to blame you."

* * *

Deeks sat back in the black leather couch, crossing his legs.

It was a small room, cosy but not claustrophobic, and there were books everywhere, consisting of The Basics of the Human Psyche to A Guide to Fears and Phobias – The Psychologists Journal. It wasn't the way he had imagined it. There were pictures of fields and meadows, and beaches and forests; almost an entire wall was dedicated to nature-inspired canvases, while a large rustic mirror hung opposite him, to which every time he saw his reflection, he felt an overwhelming need to fix his hair.

There was a selection of refreshments on a table in the far corner of the room – from water and coffee to biscuits and sandwiches, which gave a conference-room like air to the relatively small space. He noticed the window beside the couch, being the only form of natural light to the room, with a small lamp sitting on a table next to the therapist's couch, and the tanned therapist sitting opposite him. The most noticeable thing to him. However, was the unusual array of plants that were displayed throughout the room, from a Japanese Bonsai tree and a giant cactus by the window, to the little Fern that coincidentally sat beside him.

"So, Martin-"

"Please," Deeks begged, "call me Marty, or Mr Deeks. Martin is what my mother calls me… and my fiancee when we're…."

"Okay!" The therapist interjected promptly before Deeks revealed more to her than she needed (or cared) to know. "Mr Deeks… would you like to explain to me, in your own words, why exactly you're here?"

He looked at the woman opposite him, blinking. She was nothing like he had imagined. He'd imagined her to be ugly and wrinkled, with spectacles, and stockings up to her thighs, emphasizing her unattractiveness. He had pictured her holding a clipboard, with a mole above her mouth, ready to interrogate him with questions; essentially the Mrs Trunchbull of therapists. However, the woman sat before him was anything but. Her wavy blonde hair sat upon her shoulders as if he had taken extra care to ensure that not a strand would fall out of place; her figure was emphasized by the tight black dress that lay upon her body, attaching itself to every curve. Her bright red lips were pursed as she stared at him, and the absence of spectacles made her even more attractive, not that she would have been unattractive with them. To be honest, if he wasn't in a loving, committed relationship with the love of his life, he would've considered asking her out. But that was the sleep-with-anything-that-moved, pick-up-women-in-the-bar, Party Marty, and the man sitting before her was far from him.

"Well, truthfully, I didn't have much choice."

"I'm sorry? I don't follow."

He folded his hands on his lap as he proceeded to explain. "My fiancée thought that it would be a good idea to be here because apparently, I'm suffering from nightmares. I don't see that there's anything wrong with having a few nightmares here and there, but she clearly thinks that there's an issue, so…"

"And are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Suffering."

"From nightmares?"

"Yes."

"No." He paused, considering the possibility. "No," he restated firmly.

The woman seemed to resist the urge to raise an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, he spoke, more hesitantly than before. "I don't know… maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe."

"Well, Mr Deeks, why don't you explain this nightmare to me?"

Deeks shuffled on the couch. He was uncomfortable, in every sense of the word. The couch, though it had appeared comfortable before, was definitely not somewhere he wanted to be sitting right then. And there was nothing that he hated more than revealing what was on his mind, especially to a complete stranger. Why didn't he just talk to Nate? Why did he have to talk to her? Because Nate knows you too well, Kensi had told him. Surely that was a good thing though, right? He was struggling and he needed help. And this was the only way he could get it.

Taking a deep breath, he began to recount the dream. "It's my wedding day," he started slowly. "I'm standing at the altar. I'm waiting for her, and I'm nervous. Really nervous. I want it to be perfect because I love her more than anything, which I do. I'm standing there, looking out onto the crowd of guests, and the music starts playing, but she's not there, and I start wondering where she is."

He inhaled deeply. He could feel the lump in his throat as his mind wandered back to the dream. He only wished that Kensi was there with him, holding his hand, and reassuring him that she wasn't going anywhere. Every time the dream replayed itself, he felt sick to his stomach, like all of the wind had been knocked out of him. He found it hard to breathe and to think, and to concentrate on anything but the dream.

"Then," he continued, "the maid of honour, Nell, comes running outside crying with mascara stains down her cheeks, and she looks as if she's about to keel over and collapse. And then I notice the two police officers that are following behind her and the looks on their faces… I will never forget the looks on their faces when they tell me that Kensi has been in an accident, and didn't make it."

The therapist began scribbling down notes onto her clipboard, checking off boxes as Deeks continued to talk in detail. Once he'd finished talking, she was quiet for a few moments, giving him a bit of time to recollect himself. "Wow, Mr Deeks," she finally said, lifting her head and looking away from her clipboard to focus on him. "That's quite a nightmare."

"Tell me about it," he muttered.

"If you don't mind me asking, how does this nightmare make you feel?"

"Sick. Terrified. Angry. Scared. Sad. Everything. I don't think there are enough words in the English language to describe how it makes me feel." He paused, trying to put his emotions into exact words. "It's as if I can feel my heart breaking in my chest."

"And how do you wake from this nightmare?"

"According to my fiancee, screaming. Sometimes I'm shaking. Sometimes I'm sweating. Sometimes I'm crying. It… it depends on the day."

"I see," she spoke, scribbling more notes onto her paper. "And do you think about this nightmare other than when you're asleep?"

"All the time." She gestured for the man to continue. "When I'm not dreaming about it. I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about every little thing. It's as if I'm living it. It never leaves my mind."

"And have you told your fiancee?"

Deeks nodded. "I mentioned it to her," he began, "but I haven't told her that… that I think about it all the time. I don't want her to worry about it. It's not her problem, it's mine. I know that she would be really supportive if I told her what's going on, but she's been through so much that she doesn't need the pressure of this too."

"Aren't you afraid that she's going to worry more if you don't tell her?"

He shrugged. "I just figured that she wouldn't have to know…" He paused. "It's not that I don't want to tell her… it's just that.."

The therapist where he trailed off, "you're afraid that she'll see you differently if you do?"

He sighed, as he lowered his head, his eyes drifting towards the floor.

"It's okay, Mr Deeks," the woman reassured. "It's okay to feel like this. But it's also important for you to open up and be honest with her. You need to tell her the truth. I'm sure that she will not think any less of you." She paused, placing her clipboard to the side. "I have seen many patients come and go. It's hard to deal with nightmares, Mr Deeks. No matter what age you are, it's always hard. But it's even harder to deal with them alone. And you don't want to be alone. I understand that you don't want to put any pressure on her, but what about the pressure that you're putting on yourself?" She raised her eyebrows, gathering her clipboard. She tore off a strip of perforated paper, scribbling on it, before handing it to Deeks.

"What's this?" He asked, raising his eyebrows in confusion.

"The date and time of our next session."

"Not today." She sighed. "I think you've had enough for one day. We'll continue with this next time."

"Before I do…" He pursed his lips as he thought. "Do you… do you have any idea why I'm having them? Just off the top of your head?"

"There are many reasons why people have nightmares, Mr Deeks. The most common being cognitive processes… but then again, most patients that I treat with persistent nightmares are children."

"And what about adults? How many adults have you treated for nightmares?"

"They're few and far between."

"How many?"

"One."


	4. Sessions

"Me! She's only treated me! One person! One!" Deeks exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air as he paced back and forth around the living room. Kensi's eyes followed him back and forth as he travelled from one side of the room to another. Under normal circumstances, she would have found his pacing annoying, but, as she sat there watching him, there was something oddly endearing about it.

"Baby, you need to calm down…" she started gently, only to be spoken over.

"I can't calm down! You want me to calm down?!" he asked rhetorically. "I'm the only person she's ever treated for nightmares!" He ran his fingers through his hair, grunting in frustration.

Kensi sat up more fully, sighing. "First of all, Deeks, you're not the only person that she has ever treated for nightmares. She treats children."

Deeks hesitated for a moment, stopping in his tracks and sliding her a look with a raised eyebrow.

"Okay, the only full-sized person…" He corrected, sounding almost sarcastic.

Kensi rolled her eyes. She loved him so much, but honestly, he could be such a drama queen… king. She stood up and shuffled towards him as he stood in the middle of the room, motionless and staring at the ground.

"Deeks,,, don't cut your nose off to spite your face," she began, moving to stand in front of him and trying to move so that she was in his line of sight. "She's a professional. She knows what she's doing. So what if she hasn't treated a million and one other adults? I assume the process is the same. The brain still works in more or less the same way." When he didn't respond, she reached out and took one of his hands, squeezing it softly in her own. "Just let her try and help you," she suggested softly.

"But what if it doesn't work?" He voiced his worried aloud before he allowed her into his line of sight.

Every time she found herself staring into his eyes, they had control of her. The way he looked at her… she'd spend so many years staring into his baby blues that now she wondered what she looked like through them. What could his eyes see in her that hers couldn't? What made him look at her like no one had looked at her before? But now, standing right there in front of him, she could see the pain. She could see the heartache reflected in his irises, and it killed her to feel so helpless; to be able to do very little for the one person that she loved more than anything in the world. But she would try. She would try until the day he decided to tell her to stop. Which she hoped would be never.

"Then that's a bridge that we'll cross when we come to it." She finally said, squeezing his hands again, but more firmly to emphasize her point. "But baby, you need to at least give this a shot. What have you got to lose?"

* * *

"So, Mr. Deeks… have you had any experience with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder before?" the therapist questioned, adjusting her glasses as she observed him.

Deeks hated to admit it, but sometimes he liked the therapists office. To him, it was calming and tranquil. After all, he assumed that was the effect they were going for. Everything was peaceful and he could forget about his worries; it was as if he was putting them into a box and locking it tightly, and the only two people that held the key were him and the therapist… and sometimes he gave the key to Kensi too. He liked looking around at the plants, and the paintings and the decorative ornaments spread about the furniture. He felt surprisingly inspired…

And then, at other times, he hated the therapists office. Or, rather, he hated _her_. He hated talking about his feelings. He very rarely shared what was on his mind with anybody other than Kensi, but that was because they'd known each other for so long and had an intimate relationship without judgment and she meant everything to him. But sharing his every thought with someone that he had known for a little shy of a month? That was _completely_ terrifying. What if she was silently judging him as she scribbled notes on her piece of paper? What if she was writing down all his issues so that she and a bunch of her other therapist friends could gossip about him later? Not that she technically could because of doctor-patient confidentiality… but the thought did cross his mind. Sometimes he even felt like he was in the principal's office, being stared upon through those round spectacles. While she was much younger than a principal, or so he assumed, the authority and power that she had over him made him feel rather uncomfortable.

"Yeah…" he muttered, "I guess…" He reached up and fixed his hair with his hands, fidgeting on the couch.

"Do you mind elaborating?"

"Uh… well…" he stammered. God, he didn't think talking about it would be this hard. He had spoken to Nate just after the incident, and he thought that he had worked through all of his issues. After all, he and Kensi wouldn't be where they are today if he hadn't. But somehow, every time he thought about it, every time he mentioned it, it took him straight back to the day it happened. He didn't think he would ever forget about it. Granted, it became easier to handle the more time passed. But it was something that would be with him forever, and that was a fact he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried. Taking a deep breath, he decided to just get it out there. "I was tortured."

The pen slipped out of her hand, colliding with the notebook resting on her lap. Her jaw slacked and she stared at him. Her mouth opened as she attempted to formulate a sentence, but she was unable to make any sound more audible than a whisper.

Truthfully, she shouldn't have been shocked. She had done her extensive research into his background before his meeting. She knew he was a detective at the Los Angeles Police Department. She understood the danger that he put himself in on a daily basis. Her own brother was a Navy SEAL. She understood the lengths that they would go to, not just for their country, but for their family. She understood the dedication to the job. She had listened to her brother's stories, of his encounters and his fellow SEALs. Though she herself had never treated him for PTSD, she knew as he suffered with it. Honestly, she would have been surprised if he didn't. Ask any therapist to observe a Navy SEALs behavior, and they would surely tell you that about ninety-five per cent of them have experienced some form of post-traumatic stress at some point in their career; and while she had heard a lot of things, of a lot of experiences, she had never come across someone who had been tortured. That, to her, was formidable.

It took a few moments for her to return to her senses. "I'm sorry…" she apologized quickly, picking up her pen. "Please forgive me. You are the first patient I have encountered who had experienced torture, so if it seems like I am a little shocked… well... I am."

"You've never come across someone who's been tortured before?"

She shook her head. "I know that many people have this perception and stereotype that therapists only treat such cases, but in actuality, only about 3 per cent of all the cases that ever walk through our doors are a product of torture. The majority are sexual abuse, domestic abuse, and child abuse. But I digress…" She cleared her throat. "Shall we continue?"

He nodded. She gestured for him to continue speaking.

"So um… it was about four years ago…. That I was tortured… and it was the most horrific thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life… other than having to shoot my own father, but more on that another time… so anyway, it was terrifying and brutal and changed me, as a person."

His eyes began to fill with tears as his mind drifted back to the dark place he'd found himself in; that he had spent so long trying to forget. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to replay it over and over and over again in his head. He didn't want to think about the sound of the drill as it came closer and closer to his face; as they forced it into his mouth, his teeth shattering from the impact. He didn't want to think about their faces as they took so much pleasure in the pain they were inflicting upon him. He didn't want to think about Kensi coming to rescue him.

Even though he was so grateful, he didn't want to think about how much of a jerk he had been to her; how he had refused to let her in and pushed her away, even though he was completely and utterly in love with her, and wanted nobody else in the world by his side. He didn't want to think about the hospital and the recovery. He didn't want to think about his journey from who he was then to who he is now; from the foolish young party boy who picked up girls in cars, to the man he was today – happy and devoted to the love of his life. But this was just one part of his past that he didn't want to think about.

The room was quiet for so long that he didn't really expect the therapist to speak up. "If you're uncomfortable talking about this Mr Deeks, we can always revisit this another time…" she suggested, softly.

"No…" He shook his head, trying to push away the thoughts that were telling him to go with the idea. "No, it's okay. I really don't like talking about it, and I really don't like thinking about the whole situation or everything leading up to and after it, but I need to. I need to think about it, to talk about it, for it to get better. We might as well get it out of the way so that I don't have to think about it again for a long, long, long, long, long, long time." He sighed. "I need to make my peace with it. Finally."

"Mr Deeks…"

He ignored the look of worry on the woman's face, as he went on to tell his story.

 _Deeks could barely look at the device in the man's hand, already trying to spit out the blood building up in his mouth. Honestly, he'd thought that maybe they would wait until he thought that maybe they would wait until he was completely tied down for them to start on anything, but he knew he should have known better. The well placed punches should not have been a surprise to him at all – not when he had been captured. The words, 'that doesn't look very fun', spilt from his lips out of instinct, a way for him to calm himself down. Being tense, being scared, and giving them what they wanted – that was out of the question and he knew it._

 _Moments later, Sidorov approached, moving to stand behind Deeks, hands landing heavily on his shoulders._

" _Is it safe to sell the bombs, or are there undercover agents?" he asked._

 _Deeks breathed out a huff, trying to make himself seem annoyed, as he quickly though through the lie he'd recited in his head (and probably out loud) at least a couple of hundred times. "I already told you, I am an L.A.P.D Narcotics Officer; we were casing the house—"_

 _His sentence was halted when he felt a pair of hands grab his head from behind, one on the top of his head and the other holding his jaw in place._

" _I don't even know him, man!" He gave as the last attempt before the forceps were attached to his face, holding his mouth open no matter how much he grunted or yelled in protest. The man attaching the device only gave a smirk of satisfaction as he moved away, the first step done._

 _Sidorov spoke again._

" _Is Quinn an undercover agent?" he prodded, asking as if he already knew the answer, but only needed to heart the words from the man's mouth. "Yes or no?"_

 _Deeks breathed heavily, trying to think past the pain being caused by his mouth being held open – despite the fact that he talked a lot, this was not the type of thing he had in mind for himself. This alone was torture. Just breathing in through his mouth, not having the chance to spit or swallow the blood and saliva that was mingling there, just letting it rest in the bottom of his mouth and hoping it didn't choke him._

 _His lack of answer prompted Sidorov's man to move on, and part of the L.A.P.D Liaison wanted to cry. "Aw, come on man," he almost whined, his eyes spotting the next device Sidorov had in mind for his torture. "What are you doing?"_

 _Then it started whirring, and Deeks' heart rate increased tenfold. All he could do was watch as the device was moved towards his open mouth, his head held in place. The closer it got, the faster his breathing became, his eyes wide and he tried to protest against it._

 _"No-!"_

 _As soon as it touched his tooth, pain flew through his jaw. The drill continued to burrow through his teeth as he screamed, blood flowing into his mouth and pooling, mixing with the rest of the blood and saliva that was already there. If he looked back on it, Deeks would be sure that he screamed his throat raw, amidst the forced swallowing of the metallic tasting fluid that was continuing to build up below his tongue._

 _He honestly felt like the pain would never stop, that it would be never-ending, and from the looks on the men's faces, it seemed like that was going to happen._

 _He thanked whatever God was up there that he blacked out… because the next thing he remembered was being jolted awake, hands on his legs shaking him into consciousness. The blood that has been in his mouth had dried on his chin and shirt from where his chin had been resting against his chest and the pool had dribbled out before clotting._

 _He took a deep breath through swollen lips as his eyes began to dart around wildly, finally landing on the face in front of him._

 _The beautiful face… the face of an angel saved especially for him, brows furrowed with concern as she assessed the damage on his face. If he hadn't felt so swollen, so terrified, so much like his gaze was literally a balloon, he would have been able to take the time to find the look on her face endearing._

 _"You've got to get me out of here," he breathed, eyes wide with panic. He couldn't help staring at her as she began to move, assessing his situation and the ties around his arms and legs. He could just about hear another voice in the background, speaking to Sam, but he could only focus on the woman in front of him. The woman he'd kissed before his had all gone to shit, and he'd ended up where was right then. The woman who cared so much that she could only look at him with pain in her eyes as he said, "cut me loose," sounding so desperate that he wanted to cry._

 _Both pairs of eyes moved to the bonds on his arms, one pair were desperate and the other were desolate._

 _"We don't have much time," she explained, "and I-I can't."_

 _He looked back up at her with wide eyes, his fear appearing to increase tenfold. "What? What? What're you—what's happening?" The questions flew through his mind as he tried to catch up on what was going on; on what his mind was missing. On everything, he needed to catch up mentally before making a sane decision._

 _"You have to stay here just a little while longer, okay?" She looked just as desperate as he felt right then, and he could practically read the apology in her eyes from her lips. "I'm sorry."_

 _All he could give her was a look of pain, of desperation, of the sheer need to get out of there that overwhelmed his body. He couldn't stay. He needed to get out. He wasn't safe whilst he was still there, and he couldn't deal with that. Not right then. And probably not ever. He needed to be freed… and she was the only one who could do it._

 _It took him a while, a painful while, but the more he thought about it and replayed it in his head, he began to understand why Kensi did what she did. It made sense to him, though he couldn't see it at first._

 _He didn't want to be a part of it, not anymore, but this was his job. He wanted to be away from the pain, curled up in bed, away from the world and everything bad that it brought… but he also had to stop everything bad that it brought. And he had to enjoy the good things that came with it as well – like Kensi Marie Blye._

 _The thoughts rushed away from his mind as the door to the garage opened, and Michelle followed Sidorov into the building with his man, the three of them approaching Deeks. As they began to speak, he glanced up at Michelle, before down at the ground again. He didn't want to speak, he was in too much pain to do so – even as he spat out the blood building up and clotting in his mouth, he realised that letting it dribble out would have been a lot easier, a lot less energy wasting, and a lot less painful._

 _The rest of it, he couldn't (or didn't want to) really remember; there were snippets that came to mind, such as Sam lying and saying they were the F.B.I, the bullets she pretended to kill him with, the way he had to fake his death just to make the whole act seem believable._

 _The next thing he knew, there was a light being shone on his face. The bonds had been removed from his hands, and a man seemed to be looking into his mouth. The words he said didn't really register as he spat out more blood._

 _Hearing his name being called out, his eyes shifted up to meet Sam's – Sam's desperate eyes that needed to know the entire truth._

 _"Did you give up Michelle?"_

 _The blonde slowly shook his head, trying to ignore the pain that followed doing so. "No."_

 _"Was Sidorov playing her just now?"_

 _Deeks had to look away, to think of how to answer that question, his mind foggy because of the injury to his mouth. "I didn't give her up," he choked out, looking back at Sam. "I didn't give her up."_

 _The last thing he expected was the words of thanks that Sam mouthed as he was forced back into his seat._

The woman in front of him smiled ever so slightly. "That's quite an experience, Mr Deeks."

"Tell me about it. It plays on my mind all the time. I just wish I could forget all about it… forget that it ever happened… but I can't."

"And you shouldn't. These experiences, as horrific and frightening and burdening as they may be, only add to our character. They bend us, and shape us, and test our limits. They push us to the very edge, to see just how far we will go. They prove to us who we are as individuals and sometimes awaken the things we never even knew existed inside of us. In trying to forget, we make the experience worse. We dwell on it. It lingers over us, like a dark cloud and as much as we try to make the sunshine, there is always a shadow in the way. But the moment we begin to accept it, for everything that it is, is the moment the sun begins to break through."

"Those are wise words."

"Plenty more where they came from, Mr Deeks." She smiled. "As for Kensi, it sounds like you really care for her."

"Of course I do. She's the love of my life."

She nodded, as she scribbled that down, taking a moment to think through her next question. "So, I'm going to assume, and please correct me if I'm wrong, but you had trouble sleeping after the incident? I mean, I certainly wouldn't blame you if you did, because well, that was _some_ experience."

Deeks nodded, taking a shuddering breath. "Three months." He admitted. "I couldn't sleep properly for three months. I tried. I tried closing my eyes, but every time I did, I could just see their faces staring back at me… and the pain would come back… and the panic… and the fear…"

She scribbled the notes down. "And how did you finally manage to get to sleep?" She asked.

"I uh… I spoke with our resident psychologist, Nate. He's no longer working for us… well, technically he is, but just not in our office. He's just out there in the world doing what he does a psych guy. But anyway, he suggested that one of the reasons why I couldn't get to sleep was because I wasn't being honest with myself. I wasn't being honest about everything that had happened that day, and everything that I felt. I was pretending as if my feelings for her didn't exist… I pushed her away."

"But she didn't leave?" Deeks shook his head.

"She wouldn't leave me alone. She would come over to my house nearly every day and knock on the door and try and talk to me, but I wasn't having it. I mean…" he sighed, more at himself than anything, "looking back, I feel so awful about it all. She was trying to help me and I was an absolute jerk to her. Like a total jerk. The biggest asshole on the planet. But eventually… I let her in… and she brought me cronuts…" His lips curved upwards into a smile, "and then she asked me what happened next…"

"And? What happened next?" She questioned, partially quoting his words.

"I told her…" he paused for a moment, smiling, "I told her it was a love story."

A smile grew on her face as she continued to scribble down notes of what he had said. "And what did she say?" She looked up from her notepad, beaming at Deeks. She honestly loved listening to love stories, especially ones that came about in the most tragic of circumstances. She thought there was something oddly bittersweet and beautiful about it.

"Nothing, I don't think. I mean… I don't really know…" He looked to the side, brows furrowed as if he was thinking deeply. "It was like… my head hit the pillow and I was fast asleep, and I don't remember much after that."

The therapist nodded. "She seemed to be of great comfort for you."

He grinned, "She is. She's my home."

"Have you spoken to her about these nightmares, in detail? Have you mentioned everything that you're telling me, to her?"

"Uh… not really, no. I mean, she knows that I'm having nightmares, but she doesn't need to know about all the details, about her getting killed. That's not… that's not really something I want to share with her because that will just make her sad and upset."

"But she might also understand."

Now Deeks was frowning at her, to the point of almost scowling. "How so?"

The woman placed her pen down on the notepad, focusing on the man seated in front of her. "I've worked with a lot of people from different backgrounds, Mr. Deeks – mostly children – but I do often find myself with the odd couple. Even personally. I've realised that sometimes sharing your issues with your partner, the one person that you share a very special kind of relationship with – an intimate relationship – can often be the best therapy. Talking about it to the one person who will be by your side to help you get through it, proves to have remarkable effects. It is only natural to not want to upset her, and I understand where you're coming from, but I feel that in your situation, it might be the best idea. She is in the same line of work as you are, and nobody is going to understand quite what you are feeling more than her, not even myself. I assume she has been through a similar tragedy to yours, hence we're here because that tragedy has led to your nightmares – so she may understand a lot more than you may think. I know first hand, from my brother and his fellow SEALs, that there will always be someone who understands the logic behind your thinking, even if your thinking isn't so rational at the time. And there will always be someone to stand by your side and support you no matter what the cost. Someone who will be willing to stand by you for better or for worse." She tilted her head downwards, looking over her spectacles at him. If Deeks hadn't already felt like he was in a principal's office, he did now. "If Kensi is this person for you, the one person who would devote their life to be with you, then you need to tell her what is going on. And you might even find that it makes your relationship stronger and more intimate in the process."

"But I'm afraid that—"

"That she is going to judge you, or more so, your nightmares?"

Deeks hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

"From what you have told me, I think that your love for each other is strong enough to overcome anything, and judging you is the furthest thing from her mind. She wants you to get better, and so do I. You want that too, don't you, Mr. Deeks?"

* * *

"They're getting worse."

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his eyes transfixed on the unusual mandala pattern above him. He was confused as to why there was a blue mandala pattern on the ceiling of a therapists office, considering most patients probably kept their eyes closed while listening to the therapist talk, but he assumed that a likely scenario was one too many patients, and thus the intricate lines brought some calmness to them.

'They're getting worse.'

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his eyes transfixed on the unusual mandala pattern above him. He was confused as to why there was a blue mandala pattern on the ceiling of a therapist's office, considering most patients probably kept their eyes closed while listening to the therapist talk, but he assumed that a likely scenario was one too many patients, and thus the intricate lines brought some calmness to them. At least, that was the only thing he could think of. Thought, he could see how patients would be calmed by it. There was just something very pleasing about looking at it while hearing the sounds of the ocean played back through a CD, or in this case, the actual ocean… as he lived in Los Angeles and the ocean was like oxygen to the residents. They needed it to survive.

'How?' she asked.

'They're more violent now. I actually see the accident happen, and then I wake up sweating and screaming and crying…' He pursed his lips. 'They're just… they're not getting any better.'

'Okay…' She leaned back in her seat, seeming as relaxed as he wished he could feel. 'And the hypnotherapy sessions didn't work?'

He sat up fully and swivelled himself around so that his feet were resting firmly on the floor. He put his head in his hands and gave a groan, before looking up at her.

'They did… for a few weeks… but then Kensi almost got shot a couple of weeks back and the nightmares came back.'

She nodded slowly, sitting forward, noting it down. 'I see… and you've tried talking about them with Kensi?'

'Yeah… but there's nothing she can do. I love her so much, but this is all in my head… isn't it?'

'Maybe, maybe not.' She paused, removing her glasses and setting them down on the clipboard piled with paper in front of her, before clasping her hands together. 'Our minds work in mysterious ways, Mr Deeks. After all, the key to an unlocked body is an unlocked mind. What you're experiencing isn't uncommon. These dreams are your mind's way of channelling all the negative thoughts and feelings in your head and coping with the anxiety. Of course, external factors do play a significant role in the expression of these negative thoughts in your dreams. Your job sees your encounter a fair share of violence, thus your mind expresses the negative thoughts in a violent way throughout your dreams.'

'Seriously, doc… is there not a pill or something you can prescribe me to just stop me dreaming? A sedative maybe?'

She had a sad smile on her face. 'Unfortunately not, Mr Deeks. While that could solve the physical manifestations of nightmares, it does not treat the underlying cause.'

Deeks blew a raspberry as he ran his hands through his hair, almost pulling at the ends before realising he _didn't_ want to pull his hair out. 'That's great to know, Doc, but how can we stop them? I've had nearly ten sessions with you, and eight of hypnotherapy and _nothing_ is helping.'

'Mr Deeks, I understand your frustration-'

'Do you?' he yelled abruptly, pushing himself to his feet almost angrily. He loomed over her, staring down at her petite figure. All she could do was stare back at him. He began pacing as the words raced around in his mind, expressing his thoughts without an ounce of constraint. 'Do you have any idea what I've been through? What Kensi and I have been through together? Do you wake up every morning terrified that your nightmare is going to become a reality?' He threw his arms around frantically, growing louder with every word. He didn't know what happened. He'd snapped. But he couldn't stop. He felt the overwhelming urge to continue shouting at her, the frustration and anger leaving his body like steam whistling out of a kettle. 'Do you wake up terrified that your fiancée is going to die and leave you alone forever? Do you wake up screaming and crying, because the thought of her leaving you is too much to handle because you don't think you'd ever be able to survive something like that? That you would rather die than spend the rest of your life without her?'

'No.'

'No?' he repeated, sounding sarcastic. 'Then please don't tell me that you understand when you have no _fucking_ idea.'

He stood there, staring at her. He couldn't believe what he had just done. It was never like him to yell at anybody (other than, maybe, suspects), let alone somebody who was trying to help him, but he didn't know what to do. It was as if, in that moment, he had no control over his body or his mind or his thoughts. He was so confused and angry and frustrated. Sure, it might not have been the best way to express it, but at least it was out… right? He closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

'Feeling better, Mr Deeks?'

He hesitated for a few moments before he spoke. 'Yeah... actually'

'Then please, sit…'

Deeks sat down on the couch, his hands resting on his knees as he breathed in deeply, letting out the air slowly.

The therapist waited until she was sure he was settled and didn't any anything more to say in that moment, before speaking. 'It is very clear to me that you have a lot of anger and frustration, even more so than what you have just expressed here. It's understandable. I know that you don't want to tell anybody what is going on because you don't want to feel like a burden, but it is going to become near impossible to keep these feelings at bay. Sooner or later, they are going to find their way out, and when they do, it will take you by surprise - anytime, anywhere - and I don't think that either of us wants that happening, especially considering your line of work, now do we?'

Deeks nodded slowly, before quickly shaking his head in response to her question, like a child.

'It's okay to have these frustrations and this anger. It's a hard thing to go through what you've been through, and an even harder thing to confront it so long after it's over.'

'Not as hard as what Kensi has been through,' he mumbled.

'But it doesn't mean that your state of mind doesn't matter,' she continued, skipping over what he said. 'It matters the same as, if not more than, hers. It's difficult to be the one to support and care for another, particularly after an event like yours. To go from both of you being extremely capable and independent individuals to her needing you for even the most basic of tasks such as dressing herself is an unexplainable thing to deal with.' She paused, leaning forward to look Deeks in the eyes and putting her clipboard and pen to one side. 'Believe it or not, we therapists see far fewer veterans for their state of mind than we do their husbands, wives and partners. They are so unsure as to how to cope with caring for somebody else with severe conditions such as amputations or the loss of brain function. They don't know how to help them. They don't know if they are doing enough. They don't know if they are doing too much. It is a learning curve, Mr Deeks.'

'But Kensi's fine… she's back… she's good.'

'But are you?' She raised a challenging eyebrow. 'She may have dealt with her anger and frustration at the situation, but you have not… as suggested by that momentary outburst.'

He looked down guiltily. 'Sorry about that, by the way… I don't know what came over me.'

She shook her head. 'You have nothing to apologise for. It's a perfectly normal reaction. I would much rather you project your anger on me, here in this safe place than on yourself or somebody else. And honestly, I would be surprised if you didn't react in a behaviour similar to that.'

A small smile of relief appeared on Deeks' face.

The woman gave a deep sigh, before putting her glasses back on and picking up her clipboard and pen. 'So I know that hypnotherapy isn't working, so I want to try you on some physical therapy.'

'But I'm not injured.'

'Not that kind of therapy, Mr Deeks. This type of therapy is designed to channel all the anger and frustration that you're experiencing into something else. It is simple and easy to do in the comfort of your own home, alone or with a partner, or even enrol in a course if you so wish. Join a group. Kickboxing or boxing, in general, is preferred, but any physically demanding sport will do. We recommend at least an hour a day, every day, to clear your head. You can do more if you desire.'

He gave a single nod. 'I'll look into it. I'm sure Kensi would be interested.' He let out a breathy laugh. 'She never turns down an opportunity to kick my ass… or watch my ass being kicked.'

She smiled.

'In order for the physical therapy to work effectively, however, it is important to alleviate all encounters that could possibly trigger a nightmare. We find that it is better for patients to disassociate themselves… remove themselves from the situation…'

He had a blank expression on his face at that. 'So, what are you saying?'

'What I'm saying is that I want you to take some time off work. Most therapists usually recommend eight to twelve months.'

Deeks' jaw dropped, his eyes wide with something akin to panic. 'Eight to twelve _months_?!" He shook his head as if he was trying to clear the idea from his mind. 'But… I can't take a whole year off! My team _needs_ me!'

The therapist sighed. 'I know, Mr Deeks, but-'

'But, nothing! I won't do it. I just won't!'

'Mr Deeks…'

'I'm sorry, but what you're asking me is _completely_ unreasonable.' He paused and looked away, missing the slight irritation that passed over the therapists face, taking a moment to think. 'How about one month?' he suddenly suggested.

She frowned deeply. Was this man really attempting to haggle with her? 'I beg your pardon?'

'How about one month,' he repeated, more slowly when he looked back and noticed the look on her face, 'and we'll see where it goes from there. If, after one month, nothing is improving, then I'll take another month off and so on. Just take it month by month and see how far the therapy gets me.'

The woman took a few moments to think his plan through. It was risky, going against regular courses of treatment, but…

'You have yourself a deal, Mr Deeks.'


End file.
